


Beauty Contest

by Sashataakheru



Series: Strange Magic [5]
Category: Electric Light Orchestra RPF
Genre: Collars, Community: kink_bingo, D/s, Disobedience, Dressing, M/M, Obedience, Sensation Play, Touch, Voyeurism, dressups, fabrics, stage clothes, washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sashataakheru/pseuds/Sashataakheru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff likes to ensure his cellist is dressed just the way he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty Contest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts 'dressups' and 'obedience/disobedience' for Kink Bingo round 6. [Here is my card](http://3evilmuses.dreamwidth.org/68713.html).

It's always the same routine. He comes to my room before we've even left the hotel, and tells me what to wear. Sometimes, he even dresses me. I'm never sure why he likes it, or why he pays so much attention to me in this way. 

He always knocks in the same way, just three times, softly, before he calls out to me gently, asking me if he can come in. It's always a shock, because when we're alone together, he's usually not like that. His authority comes out more when we're alone. But while he's still out there in the corridor, he's just another man, asking for permission.

I've told him no a few times, though. Days where I ain't been feeling well, or I'm tired and homesick, and all I want to do is spend five minutes alone without him. Most of the time, he's alright with that, and he'll leave me alone. But he is good at calling my bluff, and he'll make me open the door, one way or another. Mostly, I'm just trying to see how far I can push him. How much would he put up with before he'd sack me? How far would he let me go? 

He's always so afraid when I get out there on stage. He knows it's my drug. He can't control me out there. But here in my room, when we're all alone and the door's locked, that's when I bow to him. That's when I kneel at his feet, stand naked before him, and I stay silent, watching him choose my clothes as if I were a child.

I do feel like a child sometimes, though. It happens when you're the youngest. There's only six years between us, but sometimes it feels like a lifetime. I tease him for that, sometimes, but I know he's not the oldest in the band, though. I'd probably do it more often if he was, though. He likes playing with our ages, pretending it's more than it is. I think that's why he likes dressing me. He ain't got any kids of his own, but he's got me, and maybe he feels some sort of protective thing about me, and takes care of me, if he's seeing it that way. It could just be a weird kink of his, something he just likes doing with someone willing to be dressed.

I'm still not sure, really. He doesn't really talk much about why he likes it, save that he wants to make sure I look proper. He's so obsessed with control, particularly for the shows. He needs to make sure everything is just right, and that extends to what I wear. I don't know if he bullies anyone else like this, but I'm not sure he does. I think it's something he does just with me.

He was here again tonight, of course. Five to four, like bloody clockwork. I let him in without a fight, and he smiled and touched my cheek as he came in. He had a bag with him, and I watched him unpack it as I locked the door behind him. I saw white satin, glittering like a pearl in the light. It had a faint pattern on it, or so I thought. I wasn't sure quite what it was, though. 

He told me to undress as he picked out what he wanted me to wear. I didn't really need to be told. I knew the routine well enough by now. I left my clothes folded neatly by the door, where he always tells me to leave them, and waited. I watched him laying out shirts and trousers, shoes and coats. He was being particularly fussy tonight, and it took him a long time to settle on something he liked. I just stood there silently, waiting for him to finish. 

Once he was done, he took me into the bathroom and washed me. It wasn't as much like a parent washing a child as it could've been, though. Mostly, he just watched me as I showered, scrutinising everything I did. He liked making sure I was well-presented to his satisfaction.

Drying me was the one time we were most intimate outside of sex. I loved the way he cared for every inch of my body. He didn't need to ask for my obedience anymore, though. He didn't really need to speak his commands, either. I knew what he needed me to do by his body language. He had a particular way of nodding and smiling, a finger just touching his chin, when he was satisfied with my washing. I'd step out and stand there as he dried me. If he happened to use his tongue as he went, well, who was I to complain?

He always kissed me when he was done, taking my hand as he led me back out to the bedroom. He would use this time to go over anything he felt I needed to know for the show, and I would listen intently as he dressed me. He would hand me items of clothing, and I would put them on for him, keeping my silence. Sometimes, he'd change his mind halfway through, and I'd have to re-dress myself in the new outfit. But generally, once he'd picked out something for me, that was it. 

It wasn't often he picked something I didn't like, though. He was pretty well tuned into what I liked, and what looked good on me, and only when he felt I'd been disobedient did he ever pick out anything I didn't like. Wearing those clothes was a form of punishment, knowing I was not wearing something I liked. They were never meant to be obvious; they were more like colours or patterns I didn't like, a pair of shoes I felt were too uncomfortable for the stage, that horrid pair of maroon jeans I could never quite like. That would be how he'd punish me if I disobeyed him. Not wishing to wear them made me obey.

He wasn't punishing me tonight, though. He bought me new white satin, and his hands caressed every part of my body as he dressed me. His kiss was eager and deep, and had we not had a show to do, we might, perhaps, have indulged a little more than we did. But I put his collar on last, and waited for his approval. 

His hands slid up my side as he checked me over. He brushed a hand over my arse appreciatively. He loosed one button on the shirt, revealing just a little more flesh for him. Pulling me in close, nuzzling my neck, I could breathe in his scent as he did the same, and his tongue danced all over my skin, leaving tingling pleasure in its wake.

It was never much more than that. There was never time, and he always liked making me wait for pleasure. He'd give it to me based on how well he thought I'd performed that night. The really great shows were wonderful. He'd bring me back to his bed, full of lust and tenderness, and we'd devour each other. Drunk and high from the gig, those nights were always the best. We'd fuck til we were tired, and sleep til noon. I'd never leave his side, waiting for his instructions.

When the shows weren't so good, I didn't get much from him at all. I didn't mind so much, though. He was never in much of a mood for sex anyway after the bad shows. Sometimes, all he needed was to have me by his side. I'd wear whatever he wanted me to wear, and lie beside him, telling him these moments were always fleeting. I'd massage his bruised ego, apologise for missing a few notes, and make him feel better. Most of the time, it was enough. He'd hold me close, whisper to me how much he loved me, and I'd tell him how beautiful he made me feel. I'd sleep in his shirt, if he let me, never wanting to be apart from him, promising him that tomorrow night would be better. Tomorrow night would always be better. He'd smile, and I'd watch him drift off to sleep. Tomorrow would always be a better day.


End file.
